Cerita Pendek & Novel Mistress Romance

The first time I found out that Jessica Blake was cheating on me was in our own bedroom. I was young and hot-headed, and I wanted a divorce on the spot. She cried and said she'd gotten drunk and mistaken the guy for me. She fell to her knees, begging me to forgive her. "If you divorce me, I'll jump from this window right now." That one line softened my heart for the next five years. During those years, she was gentle and caring, as if that night had never happened. Everyone could see it—Jessica loved me so much she was willing to die for me. But then came her mother's 60th birthday party. Out of nowhere, my mother-in-law, Linda, asked her, "Jess, where's my grandson? Why didn't he come?" I was confused. I thought she was just having a moment, so I smiled and said, "Mom, you forgot—Jess's due date is still two months away." Linda glanced at me calmly and murmured, "Oh… so you still don't know." My heart sank. I looked over at Jessica instinctively. She quietly put down her fork, as if she were talking about something as ordinary as the weather. "Actually, I have a son. He's five years old."

To keep anyone from getting suspicious, I can only use disposable things whenever I go to my boyfriend Seth Larson's house. I wear disposable slippers and eat with disposable cutlery. Even when I stay the night, he gives me a one-time-use bedsheet. "If someone happens to see your things, I won't be able to explain it." He always reassures me, saying, "Once we make our relationship public, I'll get you some proper things." For three years, I wait. Yet every time I go to his house, I'm treated like a guest. Then, one day, he throws a birthday party at home for his assistant, Regina Skinner. The moment the door opens, Regina casually pulls a matching pair of designer slippers from the shoe cabinet and slips them on. Seth's friends follow right behind her, each taking a pair and using up all the remaining disposable slippers. That leaves me standing alone at the door. "Just come in barefoot. It's not cold in the summer," Seth says. He doesn't even look up, as if he's inviting a stranger inside. From across the room, I see a full set of dishes already laid out on the dining table, all printed with Regina's favorite cartoon characters. Suddenly, I realize something. Since everything is disposable, now that I've given this love that can never see the light of day a chance, it's time for me to throw it away.

My boyfriend always said he liked independent women. So, whether it was paying for dates, hotel rooms, or even birth control, he insisted we split every expense. He always said, "I hate women who think men should pay for everything. They expect guys to buy them gifts on special occasions and even feed them while they eat. They're adults. Do they really think they're princesses? You're so much better." I told him I only agreed to split the bills because I knew he loved me. Then one day, I saw a message on his computer after he forgot to lock the screen. A female coworker had thanked him. "Thanks for treating me to dinner and even slicing the steak for me. Next time, I'll buy the movie tickets." My boyfriend replied almost instantly. "How could I let a lady pay?" I kept scrolling through their chat history. On a rainy night, he had driven across half the city just to take her home. Whenever she had a nightmare, he would stand outside her apartment building and stay on the phone with her until she fell asleep. That was when I realized the truth. He didn't love independent women. He only loved the convenience that came with an independent woman. Just then, he walked in carrying my cat. "Your cat can't be a freeloader. The expenses should be split three ways between the three of us. Since the cat can't pay, you'll cover his share too. That means you pay two-thirds, and I'll pay one-third. Transfer me 800 dollars."

Every year, my husband, Daniel Trahan, elopes with his childhood sweetheart, Callie Reed, on our wedding anniversary. On that day, they do everything that a loving couple does. On our fifth year anniversary, Daniel ordered me to put on a maid's outfit and serve them on hand and foot for 24 hours. "You've always wanted me to spend more time with you, right? I'm giving you a chance right now. Tomorrow, I'll come home and have one meal with you. "By the way, Callie's lower back hurts. You'll have to support her whenever she needs you." I complete all of my tasks obediently. When we meet up the next day, I hand him a divorce agreement. Daniel scoffs at the sight. Then, he drops his signature casually. "Oh? Are you playing hard to get again? Every time, you'll end up begging me to return to you while crying like an abandoned pet. If you're that eager to let everyone see how big a doormat you are, I shall grant your wish. "When you come crawling back to me this time, I'll stream the whole thing live so that everyone can see how spineless you are." Daniel thinks I'm throwing another tantrum this time. What he doesn't know is that the day of his elopement with Callie is also the day I get to go on my private date. Now, that lover of mine demands a proper title from me.

On the week before Valentine's Day, I want to buy my husband, Grayson Strickland, who works as a university professor, an electronic toothbrush as a gift. That's when I see a review with over ten thousand likes on a particular online store. "I recommend buying from this store! This store's electronic toothbrush is super durable! I've never had to charge this toothbrush for half a year!" Three days later, an additional response is made to that comment. "I'm sorry for misleading everyone. It turns out that my husband has been charging this toothbrush this whole time. It's my fault for being such a doofus! I even pestered him for a long time before I finally found out that he has done a lot for me! "I never have to add toilet rolls to the bathroom. All I thought is that the same toilet roll is extremely thick. The membership that I have on the TV app is often paid for and extended, and yet I thought there was a bug in the app software somehow. Some time ago, the peeling dry skin on my lips miraculously healed. It turns out he was the one who kept applying lip balm onto my lip at night. "He's a university professor, you see. In the past, I often blamed him for not knowing what being romantic was like. But now, I finally realize that those who love you will have a way of showing you how it's done." The rest of the comment section is filled with wailing complaints. They all complain that Valentine's Day isn't even here, and yet they are already sick of the lovey-dovey atmosphere. Amid the Internet users' constant requests, the poster finally uploads the handsome side profile of her husband. Feeling rather envious, I tap on the photo, only for my smile to freeze on my face. That photo actually features Grayson! As I stare at my mother-in-law, who has been paralyzed in bed for the past six years, I recall the fact that Grayson lives on the university campus all around the year. That's when uneasiness begins plaguing me. As expected, when I bring my marriage certificate to the County Clerk’s office and ask about it, the clerk points at the stamp and says, "Your marriage certificate is fake. Mr. Grayson Strickland's spouse is another woman named Callista Whitman." My fingers go slack subconsciously, causing the fake marriage certificate to fall to the floor. A chuckle of despair escapes my lips. Everyone knows that Callista is Grayson's student. She's his most prized student as well as the person who knows him the best. As for me… I'm just a free caretaker whom he has "hired".

One day, I stood in line outside the fondue place for six hours. My boyfriend, Daryl McCabe, called. "Brooke wants Cajun food. Come meet us." Brooke Jennings was my best friend, and Daryl's ex-girlfriend. This was the thirty-fifth time Daryl had blown up our plans for her. He'd been talking about this fondue place for a month, but we could never get in, there were always too many people waiting. So I'd taken the day off and stood in line for six hours just to get us a table. Every ten minutes, I'd texted Daryl an update on how close we were to being called. Five minutes ago, I'd sent him the last one. My number was 3601. They were already calling 3595. I gripped the ticket in my hand. "Daryl, I took the day off. I've been standing here six hours. We're only six people away..." "I know," he cut in, impatient, "but Brooke wants Cajun food. We can do fondue some other time." The line went quiet for two seconds. Then his voice again, pushing. "We're literally five or six doors down from where you're standing. Just come over." I'd given in thirty-four times before this. Suddenly, none of it felt worth it anymore. "No. I want fondue." I hung up and sent my boss a text. [Vincent, I accept the overseas assignment to Zwinterland.]

Since my bone cancer is already terminal, my doctor asks me if I wish to receive an amputation. My breath is lodged in my throat. After hesitating for a few moments, I end up texting my husband, Jordan Parker. "If I undergo the amputation surgery, I'll get to live for another year. Do you want me to take up the surgery?" One minute before I'm scheduled to undergo the surgery, my phone finally buzzes. "Best wishes." It's the same response as the one I've been receiving for every message I've sent him over the past three years. Of course, Jordan has responded by transferring me money and a note that says "best wishes". I put down my phone quietly. Ever since I've borrowed 500 thousand dollars from him on our wedding night, Jordan has already determined that I'm a gold digger, just like what his friends have been saying about me. That's why Jordan transfers me money when I go through a miscarriage. When I beg him to attend my dad's funeral, he gives me money as well. Half a year ago, I'm diagnosed with bone cancer. The thought about having to live my life with tubes inserted into various parts of my body while lying on my sick bed and waiting for Death to grace me with its presence in the near future triggers a mental breakdown immediately. With tears rolling down my cheeks, I send 97 long audio messages to Jordan. In return, I've received 97 money transfers. Now, I'm about to get amputated just so I can extend my life span, and here Jordan is, fusing beads with his childhood sweetheart, Camille Laurent. As I stare at Camille's romantic social media post and the barrage of comments that wish her and Jordan well, I pluck out the needle with a bitter smile on my face. There is once when Jordan has told me in a tone filled with hatred and resentment that his biggest regret is his decision to call off his engagement with Camille over a gold digger like me. Well, I hope that this time, he won't have any regrets anymore.

When Jonathan Shaw brings his seventh pregnant mistress to me for the delivery, his friends start taking bets on how long it'll take before I break down. But even after the baby's cries echo through the delivery room, they never hear me lose control. "Come on, this is the seventh one. Are you sure she isn't done with you this time?" Jonathan shrugs. "She can't have children, and I've got a family legacy to carry on. I'll end up having kids with other women so they can inherit the family business either way. I might as well have a few now and let her get used to it." As soon as he finishes speaking, I walk out carrying the newborn. Following standard procedure, I announce, "Congratulations. He weighs seven pounds, six ounces. Both the mother and the baby are doing well." Jonathan smiles as he takes the baby from my arms. Then, he hands me a divorce agreement. "Sign it," he orders. "It's just an act to humor her. She refuses to have our second child unless I divorce you first. Once the second baby's born, we'll have eight kids." I've gone along with his little charade seven times already. This time, I sign my name without hesitation. Jonathan seems to have forgotten one thing. It's not that I can't have children. We're just genetically incompatible. If I want a child, I just have to find a different man. Why would I spend the rest of my life raising someone else's children just to stay married to him?

The day I turn 18, Jacob Pratt and I make a promise to watch the sunset at Crescent Lake together after we graduate from college. He says that when the sunset spreads across the lake, we'll have a bright future waiting for us too. Four years later, the day finally comes. But on the day we're supposed to leave, I suddenly come down with a high fever and have to stay at the hotel. That evening, I still can't bring myself to miss the sunset I've been waiting years to see. So after taking some medicine, I go to the lake alone. When I step onto the viewing platform, I see Jacob kissing my best friend, Susie Kinsella, under the sunset. His best friend, Andy Hall, is holding a camera, grinning as he records them. Susie leans against Jacob. "What if Hannah finds out about us?" Andy snorts. "You've hidden it from her for six months without getting caught. Why are you worried now?" "When are you going to tell her?" Susie looks at Jacob. With his eyes on the sunset, Jacob replies calmly, "I'll tell her when we get back. I promised to come with her to Crescent Lake, and I've kept my promise." He pulls Susie close. "From now on, you're the only one I'll share views like this with." Their laughter blends into the cheers from the crowd. No one notices me just a few steps away. I take off the necklace Jacob gave me, put it on the bench by the lake, and leave. At 18, I thought watching a sunset together was the perfect ending to love. At 22, I finally understand that even though the promise has been fulfilled, the person who promised to watch it with me has already fallen for someone else.

When Jeremy Gosling proposed to me for the 9th time, I turned him down. He froze, a look of bewilderment on his face. "Why? We've been dating for seven years. What did I do wrong?" I smiled. "Your phone will tell you the reason in a moment." A second later, Jeremy's phone rang. It was my best friend, Sonia Sanderson. "Hey, master photographer, you promised to take pictures for me at the beach today. Where are you?" Sonia would always call Jeremy when he proposed to me. She had done so the last eight times. She would either ask him to take pictures for her, or edit pictures for her, or pick out new clothes for her trips. And every single time, Jeremy would leave me behind and go to her. Jeremy used to dislike her because she was the kind of woman he despised the most—the kind who would take half an hour to take pictures of food when eating out or pack two giant suitcases of new clothes for a trip. But I urged Jeremy to be more considerate of her because she was my best friend, and because her ex-husband had cheated on her and she had caught them red-handed... However, the way he became more considerate of her was by abandoning me again and again. Jeremy fell silent for a few seconds, then slowly spoke. "Alright, I'll come pick you up right now." He put the ring away, looked at me, and made another promise to me. "I'll finish the photoshoot quickly. When I get back, I'll personally put this ring on your finger." He left in a hurry. But Jeremy, I will neither believe you nor wait for you ever again.

My best friend and I were in relationships with the brothers from the Wilson Family, and we both got pregnant at the same time. She flaunted her relationship publicly, making everyone in Junopia know that Rick had left the monastery for her. On the other hand, I kept silent about my relationship with the heir of the Wilson Family. Thus, everyone mistakenly thought I was single. That was until my best friend saw my pregnancy report. In a fit of rage, she rallied a group of friends, stormed into my dorm, and vandalized my room with food waste. "I thought you were my best friend, and here you are, trying to steal my man," she accused. Not only did she live-stream this accusation, trying to paint me as the other woman, but she also spiked my chicken soup, hoping to get rid of my unborn child. In defiance, I poured the contaminated soup over her head. "Just so you know, Rick isn't the only Wilson brother," I retorted. Later, Rayden, the man who controlled Junopia, wrapped his arm around me and declared icily, "I've heard troubling rumors about my wife being called a mistress. We need to talk."

Mom has terminal cancer, and her dying wish is to see me in a wedding dress. After I beg my boyfriend and my best friend 88 times, they finally agree to help me stage a wedding so I can make her wish come true. But on the wedding day, Mom holds on with the last of her strength, waiting until her eyes can barely focus. The groom never shows up. Neither does my bridesmaid. Then my best friend, Jolene Cohen, posts a photo. Isaac is in his tux, and Jolene is still in her bridesmaid dress. They're posing with a cake, both grinning at the camera. "My bestie was so nervous about her wedding that her groom came halfway across town with me just to pick up a cake. She's seriously lucky to have a guy like him." The location tag is a popular cake shop across town. I call Isaac and confront him, but he sounds completely unconcerned. "Isn't this whole thing supposed to be about fulfilling your mom's last wish? I'm just helping Jolene loosen up so she'll seem more natural when we do this later." Jolene laughs from somewhere beside him and chimes in. "Come on, Lily. We're just messing with you. We'll be back in a bit. Tell Ms. Page to wait a little longer." That's when I realize that all my desperate pleading and even Mom's dying wish mean absolutely nothing to them. I watch the line on the monitor go flat as tears blur my vision. I end this whole charade on my own and walk away from them for good.

A month before our wedding, my fiance decides to father a child with his late best friend's widow. I don't lose it or make a scene. Instead, I calmly send him a text. "There are plenty of ways for her to become a mother. Why does she have to have your baby?" A second later, he calls and accuses me of being unreasonable. "My best friend entrusted her to me on his deathbed. She doesn't know anyone here, and I'm all she has. Why is it such a big deal if I have a child with her? Besides, we're using IVF. It's not like we're sleeping together, and I'm still going to marry you." I smile as I text him back. "Don't bother. I'm marrying someone else, so you two can have each other."

The night I finished my month of recovery, Donald Inksworth brought up, without warning, the nightmare I least wanted to talk about. "Actually, the man who kept you locked away and violated you five years ago was Levi." Levi Sinclair was the husband of his foster sister, Jolene Trafford. A roar filled my head, and my mind went blank. "What?" Donald continued, his voice as calm as still water, "Back then, Jojo found out she couldn't have children, and her mother-in-law had never liked her to begin with... To help her secure her place as Mrs. Sinclair, I agreed to what Jojo asked of me. We used you to get pregnant in her place… Lev had always wanted you for himself. So..." So the three of them had conspired together. They locked me away and violated me day and night until I became pregnant. I forced down my nausea as my lips trembled. "Why are you telling me this now?" Donald let out a breath, as if a great weight had finally lifted from his chest. "I kept this secret for five years. It wore me down. And I've given you back the child I owed you. "They say a woman's heart softens once she becomes a mother. Looks like that's true... You're not falling apart like you used to. You've really become much better behaved." I tugged at the corners of my mouth and forced something resembling a smile. He didn't know that I hadn't become better behaved at all. I simply had a secret of my own that I had yet to confess to him.

Colonel Rachel Melton promises me she will only stay by her first love's side during his depressive episodes 99 times. Yet, the moment I mark down the 99th time, I catch them locked in a tight embrace. After that, I no longer stand in her way when she goes to him. I only ask her for a good luck charm to serve as our child's first birthday gift. At the mention of our child, Rachel's expression softens. "When I get back, I'll make sure to give Diana a wonderful first birthday." "Okay," I murmur, completely omitting the fact that I have submitted our divorce papers ten days ago, and that our daughter died on the very day she chose to be with Todd Weber. Now, we are already divorced.

On our marriage registration day, my fiancé Harry stood me up. "Evelyn's cat went missing. She's on the rooftop sobbing her eyes out, and I have to be there to support her emotionally. We can do it another day." Everyone around me expected me to throw a fit. Instead, I calmly replied, "Sure. Go be her emotional support person." I turned around and went directly to a pawn shop. I then traded my engagement ring for eight grand. That night, he came home covered in cat hair and tried to guilt-trip me. I simply opened my Venmo app. "So you're going to be someone else's emotional support companion? Then let's put a price on it. Twenty bucks an hour, plus a penalty for standing me up on our marriage registration day. Pay up! "Think it's too expensive? Fine. I'll clear out half the house instead. And while I'm at it, I'll take the left shoe of every pair of your limited-edition designer shoes!"

In Kieran Chase's eyes, I was not his wife. I was a non-performing asset waiting to be liquidated. When I got sick and asked for help, he became impatient. He said, "This is a minor problem. You can handle it on your own. No need to tell anyone." When I broke down in tears, he reprimanded me. "Losing emotional control shows weakness. It exposes the fragility of our alliance. I'll have the PR team teach you emotional management." Even when I called for help after a car accident, he hung up. "Nothing about you is important enough to interrupt a transaction worth hundreds of millions." I spent seven days in the ICU fighting for my life. On my first day home, I found Kieran leaning over another woman, his voice suddenly soft and coaxing as he convinced her to take her medicine. He opened his mouth to explain. I smiled bitterly and handed him the papers I'd prepared long ago. My tone mirrored his perfectly. "Mr. Chase, regarding our marriage project, the return on investment is unacceptably low after comprehensive evaluation. I'm formally proposing we terminate our cooperation. "Here's the divorce agreement. Sign it."

Savannah Cox was my husband's first love. When she got divorced, my husband, Alex Stewart, was the lawyer who handled her case. Then he moved her into our home after getting rid of Mochi, my cat, because she was allergic to cats. Because she lost a necklace, he forced a pregnant me to jump into an icy pool to retrieve it. By the time I lost our baby and ended up in the hospital, Alex was posting Savannah's prenatal checkup report—the first post he'd made all year. "The cherry blossoms are blooming at Cherrywood Park. She arrived with spring." I quietly liked the post, feeling unwell and numb with grief as I spent the day in silence. Alex only looked at me with disgust, a cruel sneer creeping onto his lips. "Autumn, people like you deserve to lose their children. If you love kids so much, why don't you go die with the baby?" What he didn't know was that I was already dying.

I'm the least affectionate kept woman in Bellmont's high society. I don't compete for attention, check up on my man, or go out of my way to please him. Brian Hemsworth takes me to see the Northern Lights, and I spend the entire flight asleep on his private jet. He spends eight figures on a vintage Harry Winston diamond, only for me to wear it for ten minutes before deciding it's too heavy and tossing it into my safe. His friends say he'd be better off getting a dog. But Brian seems to love how little I care. One frown, and he spends the whole night wondering what he's done wrong. One smile, and he buys me another house. He thinks I've lost interest in everything but him. Little does he know that there are only twenty days left on our three-year contract. Once the final eight-figure payment hits my account, I'm retiring for good. But just as I'm counting down the days, a bubbly college girl, Fiona Parker, comes into his life. She's impressed by the smallest things. A bouquet brings her to tears, and getting to ride shotgun in his car makes her feel like the luckiest girl alive. Next to her, I look like an ungrateful brat. She turns down all the jewelry Brian carefully picks out for her, tears in her eyes and cheeks flushed as she says, "I don't want anything. I just want you to be happy." Apparently, a few cheap tears are all it takes to fill the emotional void in Brian's life. He gives her the trip he promised me, then complains that I'm too cold and distant. I don't argue. I just cross another day off my countdown. Twenty days later, the money arrives right on schedule. I cancel my phone number and move out of his villa overnight, taking everything that's mine. Word soon gets around that Bellmont's famously aloof, untouchable heir is nursing a broken heart. Now he's turning the whole city upside down, desperately searching for the coldhearted woman who never gave him the time of day.

My girlfriend, Serena Weston, always has my "one-time" fingerprint registered on the smart lock for her house. Every time she registers it, she tells me, "Feel free to come over at any time. You're always welcome in my home!" However, every single time, when I return to her doorstep, the lock's prompt always claims, "Your fingerprint is not registered." After being locked out yet again, I stare at the sensor pad glowing red and call Serena. As soon as the call connects, her tone's apologetic as usual. "I'm so sorry! Blake was messing around yesterday and accidentally deleted your fingerprint while testing the lock. Hold on. I'll re-register it for you the next time I'm back." Once again, I have to wait for the next time. I grip my phone and suddenly recall the excuses she gave the previous times my fingerprint was deleted. The time before last, she told me there was a glitch during a system upgrade. Yet, her childhood friend Blake White's fingerprint remains untouched. Last time, she told me the lock was malfunctioning, so she'd changed the entire panel. In reality, it was because Blake had merely grumbled, "It's not safe to have too many fingerprints registered." Every single time, she has a perfectly plausible "accident" that justifies her giving in to Blake's possessiveness over the house. "Wait for me to come back and open the door for you," Serena says on the other end of the line. However, as soon as I hang up, I hear the crisp click of the lock from inside the house. Blake knows I'm outside. Yet, he locks the door from the inside. I rise to my feet and dust off my trousers, telling myself to let it be since I have no desire to walk through that door anymore.